"nicu" poems
When a rose bud is born... It slowly raises it's head...
Like wise was my tiny baby s sleeping closed eyes.. deep in sleep..
The stark deep red rose bud comes out of the green...
The same was the brightness of my son... Spotless, shining, serene..
The bud blooms,
That bright, glowing, strong petals
Likewise was the skin of my son... Like a shining sun..
But alas we love the young buds a far too much
We cut it and put in in vase
I am here staring at a bud like that in a hospital,
From behind the glass wall I am staring both.... I am reading innocence of both...
In NICU, my son is sleeping, lost in between the pipes which is giving him life,
The bud too in the vase thinking of it's mother...yearning to be in arms of it's mother..
The *** that holds it's mother out side.. Is also waiting for it to return...maybe!!
May be scared to bloom another bud....
The pain of losing is thr for both of us...
To loose is easy
To live in uncertainty is not...
How does a new born baby feel...I know not...
How to satisfy day old baby s hunger ....I know not..
How is a 6th day* celebration done I know not...
How does it feel to bathe a new born...I know not...
What I know though
Is that my new born is sleeping in NICU
I have been staring him from glass for past one month
I will wear clean, sterilized clothes am ushered to be near him..
For few seconds... Once in 24 hrs... My maternal love becomes alive...
Though I go near him, cameras are thr, I cannot touch him, I can feel his breathing..I can see him sleeping...
My hands behind..
Face covered with mask..
I gaze at him with blurred eyes,
I give him love of both his dad* and myself...
Just for that moment...
Both of us again stand behind that glass wall
We show our son to all those who pass by
We hide our tears behind our smiles..
We stand again in wait thr...
When I took my month old baby in my arms for first time....
He is still the same, he looks still the same...
How are these wonders of universe, the creators..
How can a colorful life become color-less..
Each day, each moment some where a new bud is born..
A new creation everyday...
Sparkle in Wisdom
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
"Gabrielle" was a name falling from my grandmother's lips,
as I was rushed to the NICU, the doctors asked my name,
and my grandmother uttered a word that was more like a promise.
Gabrielle is the female form of Gabriel, the angel that brought the news of the birth of Jesus to townspeople, like how my grandmother brought the news of my birth to the hospital waiting room, where my ten year old brother was beginning to understand what it meant to be a man, and my other grandma threw a fit about my new moniker.
The name Gabrielle means "gift from god" and my life itself was a gift as no one knew how long I'd be around to live it, the odds of a tiny baby hooked up to wires and tubes. God gave me the gift of life, as I was born without breathe, my lungs not ready for this world, he gave me a second chance, and I opened up my mouth and cried.
Gabrielle meant a name, and a name meant a life, a family, a place in the world.
Growing up I loathed my name, hopping between nicknames, wishing I had been given anything else for a title, but now I know I would not trade it for the world.
To reject my name is to erase the prayer that fell from my grandmother's lips the moment I was born.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
Joyful boy bundled in blue,
Nine months and a day mommy carried you,
Nine months and a day when I was due,
Out you came with a purplish hue.
Your twin sister soon followed suit,
However, she came out, pink, plump, and cute.
Beautiful you were, a work of art,
You had my love right from the start.
Perfect little eyes, fingers, nose, and toes,
My heart full of both sadness and excitement,
Thought I might implode.
A few months before,
In two my heart tore,
When the doctor informed me,
A stillborn you'd be,
Your little heart didn't function at full capacity.
But even with your purple hue,
Here, with me just for a few,
Precious Earth angel, mine you were,
I'm sure the Lord God would concur.
Just for me, I felt you held out,
Your tiny little heart beat so rapidly,
The cry let out was quite lively ,
In mommy's arms right where you belonged,
For nine months and a day to hold you I had longed.
Momentarily, the nurses and doctors had fawned over you
Then quickly they whisked my love away to the NICU.
Bundle of blue, your outlook was bleak,
Surprised I was you even let out a squeak,
For you were so very tiny and weak.
So daddy and I packed you up and took you home,
To steal every moment of this precious time alone,
No breathing machines, painful needles, or drugs,
Just you, me, daddy, little sister, and a sea of endless hugs.
My little boy, bundled in blue,
You stayed with us 48 hours plus two.
I listened to every rapid heartbeat, right until your last,
I imagined you'd return to a sea of stars so vast.
We captured every moment in photos and on film,
The entire two days death was at the helm,
My little joy, bundled in blue,
For Nine months, a day, and forever, mommy will carry you.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
It begins the same way it ends.
Fluorescent combinations of photonic crystals,
Burning beneath my skin, into my gaping soul.
These are my lights.
Gripping tightly to is base, holding it steady,
Peer through its open lense.
Record each and every moment.
This is my camera, so let it commence.
Take 1.
A mother wails as her baby rolls out.
Physicians stagger in, along with nurses.
NICU is now home to the baby girl who
Came 2 months before she was due.
02/01/1995 - the unforgettable date that
I changed my family’s lives.
Take 2.
Fast forward to when everyone else’s
Nightmare’s become my reality.
The thoughts took over my anatomy,
Constricting blood vessels in my brain
And with every heartbeat those enlarged
Vessels collided with my skull – throbbing.
A rainbow of pasty pills dissolved on my tongue,
Releasing their chemicals into my ocean-like blood stream.
Take 3.
Every waking day had not only become a
Physical struggle but in fact a psychological endeavor.
The thoughts hindered my perception of reality,
Just as cumulous clouds darken the suns light.
Back seat riding with my negativity leading
Me through a tunnel of self-destruction.
Take 4.
Addicted.
To the bottle, the drugs, and the razor blade.
Addicted.
The dullness of the liquor,
The euphoric journey the drugs took me on and,
The intoxicating aroma the blood gave off
As it poured down my wrist
Shaped my addictions to that of self-annihilation.
Those were my Actions.
It ends the same way it began.
Fluorescent combinations of photonic crystals
Burning beneath my skin, into my gaping soul.
Now this is the end.
If my life was a Motion Picture;
I would go back and film it again,
But this time validating true happiness.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
in the story, a newborn is placed in a mailbox. we know of no harm and the story itself is very casual. an angel tells us the job of an angel is to fly in front of the master when the master is nude. we try to hang on every word. the mailbox is the only mailbox in heaven. our questions turn our stomachs. some of us become hormonal and some of us identify pedophiles by future rote. we head home in a pack. a siren behind us wails a moment before being joined.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
To move beyond my darkened confines,
and gaze at the world now by light defined.
Alive outside, on a day with the sky so blue,
white clouds, green leaves, shades of every hue.
Sweet air to breathe since my early birth,
of touch and scent - the things on earth.
The sound of children filling my ear,
of parents and loved ones soon drawing near.
To gaze in wonder at my own worldly visage,
now reflected, at last, in a smooth mirror's image.
But especially, I want to behold my mother,
whose meaning to me is like no other.
The face that is God and the universe for me,
whose vision means love, and allows me to be.
To sense the warmth of that gentle caress,
that calms me down and soothes my distress.
And nourish beneath her soft velvet *****
gaze up at those eyes, whose intent I must fathom.
It is nature's way that she decides my soul's fate,
that I die alone , or make heaven wait.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 12:52 PM UTC
I lie here, as God intended to be,
for better or worse, shouldn't he judge me?
A chance of nature was how I was created,
but now that I'm here, should my life be debated?
The right of the living is my simple defense,
to play out my time regardless of consequence.
Perhaps a future of suffering, sorrow or pain,
or the joy and comfort where love remains.
But, whatever the reason of my earthly flight,
I come from the Father to claim that right.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
नन्ही कलि जैसे संसार को देखने के लिए,
अपना सर उठाती है,
ठीक वैसे ही मेरे नन्हे की आँखें थी टुक टुकी वाली खामोश,
नींद की आगोश में/
***
नयी अनछुई कलि की लाली, सुर्ख रंग की,
पहली बार संसार में आती है,
ठीक वैसे ही मेरे चुनमुन की कांति थी,
बेदाग, चमकदार/
***
कलि का वह कवच में से निकलना,
वह चटकदार, तेज वाली उसकी पंखुडियां,
ठीक वैसे ही थी मेरे ठाकुर की काया ,
सूर्य की किरण जैसी../
***
पर हमें नन्ही कलि से प्यार होता है..कुछ ज्यादा ही...,
काट के उसे सजा लेते हैं गमलों में
वैसे ही एक कलि को निहार रही हूँ मैं अस्पताल में,
कांच की दीवार के पीछे से ...मैं दोनों की मासूमियत पड़ रही हूँ,
***
NICU में मेरा बेटा सो रहा है,, नालियों के बीच, मशीनों के बीच खोया हुआ है,
कलि भी गमले में शायद सोच रही है, अपनी माँ के अंचल को तरस रही है,
उसका पौधा भी बहार शायद उसकी राह तक रहा है,
अगली कलि को खिलाने से डर रहा हो,
खोने का एहसास उसे भी है मुझे भी..खोना आसान है, असमंजस में जीना कठिन है........
***
नन्हा सा बिटउ पहले पहेल कैसा होता है मुझे मालूम नहीं,
एक दिन का बच्चा भूक से बिलकता कैसे शांत होता है माँ की गोद में मुझे मालूम नहीं,
एक हफ्ते के बेटे की छट्टी कैसे होती है, मुझे एहसास नहीं,
पहली बार पानी में नहलाना कैसा होता है मुझे पता नहीं...
***
पता है तो यह की मेरा नन्हा बेटा NICU में सोया हुआ था,
एक महिना मैं ने उसे कांच से निहारा है,
साफ़, कीटाणु रहित कपडे पहेना के,
माँ के नसीब होता है चौबीस घंटे में दो क्षण का सुकून,
जब कांच की दीवार के अन्दर जाकर एहसास उसका ले पाती है,
सांस उसकी महसूस कर पाती हैं,
हाथ पीछे बांधे, कैमरे की कैद में, मैं उसे देख लेती...
फेस- मास्क लगे होंटों से मैं उसे पुचकार के, आँखों की रौशनी धूमिल होती आसुंओं के पीछे से,
अपने बेटे को उसके पिता का और मेरा प्यार दे आती...
***
बस उस क्षण के लिए फिर हम दोनों,
कांच की दीवार के पीछे से, हर आने जाने वाले को अपना मासूम दिखाते,
आसुंओं को मुस्कराहट के पीछे छिपाए खड़े रहते,
***
एक महीने का बेटा जब अपने हाथ में लिया, आज तक वोह वैसा ही नज़र आता है,
ना जाने श्रुश्ठी कैसे रच जाती है...
कैसे रंगीन और रंग- हीन हो जाती है,
हर आते जाते दिन में हर समय कहीं न कहीं एक नन्ही कलि खिल जाती है.
Sparkle in Wisdom
2009
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 4:40 AM UTC
This is not how I thought I’d meet you, my son.
In your plastic bubble, I don’t feel like a mom.
Can’t hold you, or feed you, or rock you to sleep.
These are not the memories I expected to keep.
So quiet and fragile, “It’s my fault,” I weep.
Each night we go home with an empty car seat.
“Can I hold him?” I ask. She says, “You may soon, just not today.”
“Maybe tomorrow will be the day.”
Even though I only get to behold you for now,
It fills my life with bliss just to see you in sight.
Here, I patiently await to give you a kiss.
I cradle my pump until my body is dry,
Filling the freezer with my supply.
“Liquid gold,” they say, to help fix you.
Drink up, my sweet boy, it’s all I can do.
Amongst the fear, the hell, and the anguish,
There is light, a magic, and hope that all will be well.
Late at night, amidst tubes, the beeps, and the wires,
We form a bond that could start fires.
After seven days of life is the day I finally get to hold you—
So little and fragile, my emotions running wild,
I dare not take a breath, just in case it might hurt you.
Nurses whisper and sing you a sweet lullaby,
They hold my hand, “It’ll be okay, mama,” as I cry.
They touch you tenderly, you’re theirs on loan,
Filling you with love until you’re ready to come home.
When we finally leave, it’s bittersweet.
We’ll never forget those we meet.
I’ll never forget those sterile walls, hands washed raw,
I’ll hear the beeps long after leaving those halls.
Joy and nerves as we drive towards home,
We’ll be sure to tell you about your start in life, my sonshine.
One in seven need the help of the NICU—
I just didn’t think it would be you.
Nov 5, 2022
Nov 5, 2022 at 9:24 AM UTC
If its time to make love I’m ready for some history loving.
But when they said I had a bouncing babe in the rotisserie oven.
I said that you did not have to tell me that I had a belly.
Because in most foreign cultures it was a sign someone is wealthy
They retorted that my babe must be in nicu, I told them frick you.
But it sounded more like the word people use when they want to do.
They got offended and stormed off, but how did they expect me to reply.
Did they expect me to apologize to them as if I am that kind of guy.
Smile, and say hi, I’ll work so my belly goes down from nine months to one.
The worst is when they are a stranger and initiate the conversation.
Then I comment on their lack of hair, and say they are aging gracefully.
One person who I told this turned from condescending to a raging face to me.
He whispered my belly needed deliverance, I replied that what his hair needed was dead.
I thought that based on his comments about me it had to be said.
They left on a huff from the train, I’d just thought I would share some of my pain.
Such people need to be taught manners so they are not rude like that again.
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 4:42 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like I am about to figure out the punchline.
Everyone stops and watches.
Waits to see if we can end the charade.
Here—
Let me try—
Infant dies in NICU, never gets to question the nature of its existence.
No—
Wait—
Three year old child chokes on toy labeled not for children under the age of four.
No—
Hold up—
Six year old drowns in pool; parents too ****** up to notice.
No, no—
****
It doesn’t have that ring of humor to it, that can’t be it.
I can feel it though, the laughter on the tip of my tongue waiting to boil over.
Here—
Let me try again—
Nine year old finds his parent’s candy, suffocates on his own *****
No, no, no —
I’m close, I can feel it—
How about—
12 year old child plays with power tools, electrocuted.
No, no, no—
No, no—
21 year old man drives drunk, crashes into cemetery.
No, no, no—
No, no—
No, no—
25 year old man gets ******* sick of trying to see what’s on the other side of the painting, takes a bath in his own blood.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—
Wait—
Here—
ENTIRE GENERATION spends their whole lives trying to distract themselves from the fact of their mortality.
None Survive.
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 8:56 AM UTC